


The Show Must Go On

by themoonisgay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6710653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonisgay/pseuds/themoonisgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton is the new stage manager at his local theater, a promotion entailing lots of late nights and frantic searches for props. But he knows he can handle the job. </p><p>What he can't handle is his quick infatuation with John Laurens, a barista who hopped into the world of acting without a second thought. This job is going to be a lot harder than he thought it would be. </p><p>or, that one theater au no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Show Must Go On

Alexander tapped his pen rhythmically on his knee and pouted, his cheek resting its weight on his upward palm. He wished Washington had left some paper or something lying around on the meeting table. At least then he’d be able to write something in the meantime. But alas, the table was clear, its polished wood reflecting his disheveled look as if it were a mirror. Alexander stared at his reflection and sighed. His hair was crumpled into a bun, his eyes hung low with exhaustion, and his mouth seemed to be pulled taught. He really wished he had something to do.

He had been waiting for direct orders for at least twenty minutes. It was their first day of initial planning for the next season, and Alexander was elated to start a new play as the actual stage manager. His life of longingly watching Angelica run around frantically from the sound booth was over. Damn, was he glad she got that raise.

But today, Alexander had no checklist, no disasters in the prop room, and no costume emergencies to take care of. He had asked Angelica what he could do to help, but Angelica had sighed and just told him to sit down in the meeting room and wait. Obviously, his reaction was no less than sour. He was a stage manager now! Surely he should be let in on a bit more of the action, instead of waiting for confirmation from his superiors in this empty bureau. But Angelica had just stared at him sternly, causing Alexander to gulp and accept his fate of boredom with open arms.

He sighed and leant over on the empty table. Resting his head in his arm, he closed his eyes. If there was a wait, he might as well catch up on some well-needed sleep. His breathing slowed and a faint smile decorated his otherwise fatigued face. Sleep was good.

A sharp jab near his shoulder blade woke Alexander from his stupor. “Ow!” he yelped, jumping up. He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing at the small, sharp pain.  

Alex looked up to see Angelica standing in front of him, holding several folders and a book. She frowned- a piercing one that seemed more angry than sad- and looked like she was merely seconds away from strangling him. “I leave you alone for half an hour and you fall asleep! Jesus, Hamilton. If you can’t pull yourself together, I don’t know how well this job is going to work out for you.”

“Hey, look, I’m sorry!” Alex started, suddenly sitting up straight. “‘S not like there’s any actual work for me to do anyway.”

“Oh yes, there is,” Angelica affirmed, shoving the stack of papers into his hands. “George and our managers will be here any minute and I need you to set up these documents for them. Start organizing. I’ll be back in five with coffee.”

Alexander glanced down at the stack of documents, and accepting the energy they would need, he shouted, “Get me an Americano!” as she left the room.

Sighing, he set to work, laying out calendars of the coming year in front of each chair. Stacked above them were documents regarding budget, who to hire again, who to blacklist, which play to perform this year. Almost everything Alexander had stayed up at night planning was laid out on the table- the logistics, management, pitches for publicity, casting directions. He couldn’t help but smile. This was the industry he was destined for.

Once he had finished laying out the papers, Alex sat down. He shifted his weight in his chair, trying to rearrange his lanky limbs into some comfortable position, but the chair was too rickety and he was too excited for the meeting to sit still. Grimacing, he stood up and awkwardly stared at the door, awaiting his superiors and Angelica to return.

A moment later, Angelica walked in with two coffees. She sat one down in front of him and sighed. “They’ll be here any moment,” she said, plummeting onto the chair across from him. Alexander suddenly realized how worn out she looked.

“You alright?” he asked as he sat down. Instead of answering, Angelica took a large gulp of her coffee and glanced at the door.

“Yeah,” she finally mustered. “I’m fine. We’ve just been trying to work around some financial shortages. They’ll explain it,” she added, gesturing towards the door, where Washington and two other men walked in. Alexander immediately stood up to greet them, but Washington merely chuckled and patted him on the back before sitting to his left. The other men sat down and began glancing at the documents spread out in front of them. The men were adorned in grey three-pieces, their ties pulled so tight Alexander wondered if they could even breathe.

Alexander glanced at his own outfit, a hoodie and a pair of grey jeans, and suddenly felt underdressed. He hadn’t expected the theater’s owners to dress in suits for the small meeting. He cupped his coffee with both hands and slouched, hoping he could survive this meeting without erring.

“So,” Suit #1 said, addressing Washington, “Now that we’ve found a way around the whole budget problem, we have to determine what we’re showing this season.”

“Of course,” Washington replied, his hands folded together on the table. “Angelica has already composed a list of potential classics we think the public would take a liking for.” He paused and turned to Angelica, asking, “Would you like to expand?”

“Certainly, George,” Angelica smiled. Alexander could tell she was more nervous than before; her smile only seemed skin-deep. Clearing her throat, she began. “I’ve researched what the other local theaters have been considering for this season and also ruled out a few too well-known classics, so I think the list on top of your folders will find itself useful.”

Suit #2 took a glance at the list, raised his eyebrows, and skimmed it. A beat of silence dragged on until Suit #1 looked up and determinedly declined about half the list. Alexander felt as if a marble dropped inside his chest and closed his eyes. He could tell that these managers wouldn’t be good company at their future meetings.

The two men, who had still yet to introduce themselves to Alexander, shuffled through the list for about ten minutes. Alexander was staring at his lap, his fingers nervously tugging at themselves, when they reconvened with Washington, who was examining the calendar in the meantime.

Suit #2 cleared his throat and Alexander looked up, noticing Angelica stare at him. He took a sip of his coffee and let the lukewarm, bitter liquid fall down his throat. Suit #2 started talking, something about how  _ Huis Clos _ was too short,  _ And Then There Were None _ too typical,  _ The Crucible _ too tragic. Alexander resisted his agonizing urge to shout  _ ‘Of course it’s tragic! It’s a fucking tragedy!’   _ He instead clenched his hand into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. He didn’t understand why he was getting so worked up by the managers. Washington seemed to notice his unrest, however, and subtlely squeezed Alexander’s knee, a plead for him to remain calm.

When Alexander regained his composure, George was discussing titles with the two men and Angelica was frantically scribbling notes on the calendar.

“So  _ Death of a Salesman _ it is, eh?” Washington asked his superiors, a too-big smile stuck on his face.

Alexander looked at the list of potential plays in disbelief. There were so many good plays to try out, but they were forcing another revival down the theater’s throats? Alexander understood it had the power to draw in large crowds- it was, after all, a frequent on Broadway. But weren’t popular, well-known plays the opposite of what the theater chose to focus on? Alexander’s mind was racing. He couldn't believe that they had taken such a easy way out of the financial threats by resorting to such an overdone play, no matter how extraordinary and telling the story happened to be. Wasn't the fundamental purpose of their theater- to explore the unexplored parts of theatrical literature- more important?

Washington’s hand returned to his knee without even looking at his stage manager, as if he knew the storm ravaging inside Alexander’s feisty, argumentative mind. Alexander had to breathe in and out for about a minute and remind himself that he wasn’t in charge- not yet- before he half-smiled at their managers.

Suddenly, everyone was standing up, and Suit #1 was lecturing Washington about last minute logistics as Suit #2 anxiously looked at his watch.

“We really need to bring back our funds, so this season’s show must be spectacular. Remember, this theatre belongs to me.” Suit #1 smiled, a d evious and arrogant one that made Alex feel nauseous, before draping himself in a red overcoat and nodding to Suit #2. And with that, they vanished, the shadows of their too-good postures disappearing down the hall. Alexander felt the weight in his head soften at their absence.

Angelica coughed, Washington exhaled heavily, and Alexander collapsed into his chair.

“So we’re doing  _ Death of a Salesman _ ,” she confirmed, her words piercing the silence in the room.

Alexander’s hair stood up in the back of his neck and he crossed his arms, grimacing. “You know, for men who think  _ The Crucible _ is too tragic, I don’t understand why the fuck they thought  _ Salesman _ was acceptable.”

“Language, son,” Washington replied automatically. “Besides, I suppose it’s not our problem to deal with. Aaron’s the head of publicity. He’s in charge of getting the tickets sold. We just have to focus on making those tickets worth every penny.”

Alexander nodded and Angelica sighed. Alexander couldn’t help but pity her, knowing she’d end up the one telling Burr about his difficult task.

“So when do we hold auditions?” Alexander asked, pulling the calendar in front of him and reading Angelica’s notes.

“I’d say next Saturday,” Washington decided, his hands defeatedly lodged in his pants pockets. “Too bad we couldn’t get an ensemble to pair with this season. We’ll have to hold open auditions, probably. Angelica, you’ll be in charge of organizing the auditions. Alexander can take care of the actors once they arrive. I don’t want to deal with the chaos that is an open audition myself.”

“Yessir,” Alexander replied as Angelica silently nodded.

Washington rubbed his eyes with his palms and sighed, exhaustion pulling his stature down. After a moment of Alexander restacking the documents and Angelica pushing the chairs in, Washington bid them a good evening and left, shrugging his coat on as he walked down the hall.

“Well,” Angelica addressed him, her lips pursed.

Alexander raised an eyebrow as he sorted the documents into the file cabinet near the window. “Yes?” he asked after locking the cabinet and tossing his leftover coffee.

“Seems like we’ve got a lot of work cut out for us, Alex,” she said passively, sliding her coat on.

Alexander slung his backpack over one shoulder and walked out of the meeting room, holding the door open for his friend. “Yeah, I get it, Angie. I’ve got to sleep more and stay on top of the schedules. You told me this, like, every day last season. I’m not your assistant anymore.”

“Look,” she stared at him as they walked down the hall. “Just because George decided he needed an assistant director this year doesn’t mean you’re on your ride to glory. I just needed to find someone to fill the stage manager position and you were right there, okay?”

Alexander bit his lip, about to send a quick retort her way, but she continued. “You were a hot mess last year. I just want to make sure I can count on you to be organized and efficient this year. I can, right?"

Angelica eyed him, her eyebrow raised with less menace now and more uncertainty. She really needed all the help she could get this season. Alexander smiled faintly and reassured her with a quick, “Of course,” before they exited the theater and took a right.

“Thanks for staying quiet during that meeting, by the way. I know they were spouting illogicies and shit, but I’m glad you didn’t say anything and give me a bad name. I’m technically in charge of you, you know.”

“No worries, I can give you a bad name in front of our new cast instead,” he smirked.

Angelica’s eyes widened and she exhaled, “God, I’m going to need another coffee.”

\---

Alexander woke up to the early morning sun engulfing his bedroom in a sea of orange. Sitting up, he muttered something about mornings being mean and dragged himself out of bed. He took a quick shower, but the warm water just made him wish he could go back to sleep. He couldn’t allow that, though. Angelica needed him to help her prepare for the auditions and adjust the season schedule, so he begrudgingly turned off the tap and dried himself off.

Alex looked thoroughly exhausted under the fluorescent light of his bathroom, his eyes weighed down with a layer of dark grey and his hair an uncombed mess. He sighed. The season hadn't even officially started and he already looked half dead from exhaustion. After a few deep breaths, Alexander tied his hair into a low bun and quickly brushed his teeth. He could do this.

As he walked back into his room, he heard his roommate announce he was making breakfast-  _ “Des crêpes! Juste pour toi, mon petit lion!” _ \- and smiled. He slid into a maroon hoodie and a pair of olive jeans before leaving his room and taking a seat at their breakfast bar. Lafayette was cheerfully dancing by himself, humming an upbeat tune as he flipped a few crêpes on his pan.

Turning around, he noticed Alexander sitting there and his face gleamed. “Here you are, _ Alexandre! _ You were asleep by the time I got home last night,  _ non? _ ”

“Yeah, I was,” Alex replied, smiling faintly as Lafayette pushed a plate of his crêpes in front of him. “Yesterday was pretty busy for us, Laf.”

“Have they decided on the play they will be producing this, uhh, how you say, year?” Lafayette asked, watching Alex eat from his perch on the granite counter.

Alexander swallowed a bite of his breakfast and stared directly into his friend’s eyes. “Shut up, Lafayette. You knew the word for ‘year.’”

_ “Oui, _ perhaps I did. But it is so much more fun to act like the innocent, clueless frenchman, is it not?” Lafayette laughed, his fluffy hair bouncing up and down.

Alex huffed and grabbed the nearby jar of nutella. He smothered his crêpes with the spread while Lafayette returned to the sink, rinsing his dishes with a jovial smile, the two roommates content with the silence.

After a few moments of serene, early morning quietude (which was a rarity in it of itself considering who Alexander lived with), Lafayette bounced behind his roommate and rid Alex’s hair of its bun.

Alex chuckled. He knew Lafayette liked to decorate his friend’s hair a different way each morning, so he let his roommate get to work on his unmanageable mane.

“So,” his giddy friend spoke, his voice calmer as his fingers skillfully danced through Alex’s hair, “You haven’t told me what we will be performing this season.”

“Laf,” Alex began hesitantly, “You don’t know that there will be a ‘we’ yet. They may not cast you.”

His friend paused his work and scoffed indignantly. “George knows me! He is, how you say? Ah, yes, _ fond _ of me,  _ mon petit lion.” _ Alex rolled his eyes, knowing Lafayette was quick to say that about everyone.

“He knows I have talent! Just tell me, Alex, in what play will me and my talent be starring in this year?” Lafayette asked as he tied the end of Alex’s finished french braid with a hairband.

Alexander’s hand drifted down his braid, impressed by how smooth it felt. He sighed, “We’re planning on  _ Death of a Salesman. _ ”

“The one about the failed American man?” Lafayette giggled. “I love how Americans complain about Americans.  _ Il est amusant! _ ”

Alex buried his head in his hands, eyes closed. “No, Laf. That’s not even what the play is about! It’s a criticism on the detrimental American success story which glues financial prosperity and happiness together!”

“Yes,  _ exactement, _ ” Lafayette smiled, plopping onto the stool next to Alex. “The writer, is he not an American? Because then he is an American complaining about Americans! That’s my favorite!”

“Right, well, auditions are Saturday,” Alexander told his overly energetic friend before grabbing his coat and backpack. “I’ve got to go meet Angelica and do some very important stage manager business.” He gave Lafayette one last smile and wished him a good day doing whatever it was Lafayette actually did before leaving.

\---

It turned out that for Alexander, ‘very important stage manager business’ was just walking around the storefronts in the neighborhood and asking to post audition fliers on the stores’ windows. Angelica had called it “important for publicity,” but Alex knew it was just the busy work she didn’t feel like doing. Frowning, he stood outside the theater and texted Eliza.

to <3 wifey <3, 11:36 am.

   hey! would u mind hanging around downtown with me? angelica’s making me post fliers everywhere and i don’t wanna do it all alone :((((

 

from <3 wifey <3, 11:41 am.

   alex, you know i have a lecture until 12 on tuesdays

 

to <3 wifey <3, 11:42 am.

   :((((((

 

from <3 wifey <3, 11:45 am.

   fine i’ll be there in half an hour, but coffee’s on you

 

to <3 wifey <3, 11:47 am.

   thanks eliza!

 

Half an hour later, Alexander hummed joyfully to himself as his fingers deftly taped a flier on the door of a local records shop. He hadn’t expected himself to like walking around and asking permission to post fliers everywhere, but it occupied his mind well enough. It was better than nothing, he supposed.

“Alexander!” Eliza shouted, waving to him from across the street. Alex turned around, greeting Eliza with a hug once she crossed the street to join him.

“Hey, Eliza!” he smiled.

His friend gleamed back at him, her long hair flowing in the soft city breeze. “I heard there’s a coffee with my name on it,” she winked, linking arms with Alex and guiding them to the local coffeehouse before he could protest.

“I guess there is,” he consigned, allowing his friend to drag him inside the café. The bustling sounds of fancy coffee machines met the the bitter aroma of coffee as soon as he stepped inside the door. It was a small coffeehouse, but lively and definitely welcoming. Historic photographs lined the walls and comfy looking chairs surrounded an electric fireplace. The environment of the shop reminded him of a small museum: filled with vintage art and homey decorations, but still spacious and welcoming. Alexander wondered how he had never noticed the place before.

“C’mon, Alex!” Eliza grinned, pulling him into the long line. “Trust me, the coffee here is really good. My friend John- the one from intramural softball- works here and sometimes brings me coffee before our games.”

“Yeah?” Alexander asked, suddenly only half-listening to his friend. His eyes had locked onto one of the baristas. He was rushing around the workspace, completely focused on his work and completely oblivious to how cute he looked. His cheeks were splattered with freckles, his tight curls pulled into a bun, his dimples warm and charming as he smiled. Alexander felt his chest ache and decided he didn’t mind the new, compressing sensation.

“Alexander?” Eliza asked. When he didn’t respond, she waved her hand in front of his eyes, breaking him from his stupor. ‘Alexander,” she said again, more sternly.

“Yes,” Alexander replied absentmindedly, eyes trying to take in as much of the barista’s adorable presence as possible. Alex noticed his shirt, a pale yellow tee patterned with small turtles, and exhaled deeply. The shirt was covered by a deep purple apron that thankfully hugged his waist in all the right ways. Alex felt overwhelmed by how cute his outfit looked.

“Yes, what? Alex, I didn’t ask you a yes or no question.” Eliza crossed her arms and furrowed her eyebrows, but she seemed thoroughly amused.

Alexander knew he was humoring his friend, but he couldn’t care enough that she found his quick attraction to the stranger funny. He was too busy staring at his freckles; he wouldn’t have minded kissing every single one.

Eliza groaned. Alex glanced at her and she stared back, her eyebrow raised as if she was challenging him. Alex tried to summon enough words to explain his haze, but after a moment of his mouth hanging wide open, speechless, he surrendered with a quick shrug of the shoulders.

“I knew it!” Eliza confidently shouted, a smug look on her face. She took her peacoat off and wrapped it around her arm, an excuse to cross her arms knowingly. Leaning in, Eliza lowered her voice and asked, “You totally like him, don’t you?”

Alex stood rooted in line, his eyes glued to the barista’s soft smile as he took care of the customer in front of them. He gulped, knowing Eliza could read him better than he could read dense biographies on the founding fathers. Biting his lip, he spouted out, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Eliza merely shoved him up to the counter and told him she’d like a latte before abandoning him. Alexander’s eyes widened as he realized he was next in line, and Pretty Barista was asking him a question, and his ears hadn’t picked up on what he had said.

“Sorry, wha’ was that?” he mumbled, already making a fool of himself. Alex cringed inwardly.

But Pretty Barista only chuckled- damn, did his dimples look great when he smiled- and repeated himself. “Just wanted to know what you’d like. To drink,” he added, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Oh, right,” Alexander said, glancing around and realizing he was in a coffeehouse. Right. “Um,” he started, “I’ll have an Americano and a latte.”

“Sure!” Pretty Barista said, grabbing a sharpie and quickly jotting something down on his cup, which was confusing, as he hadn’t asked Alex for a name. Alex only shrugged and grinned when Pretty Barista looked up and told him his total would be $7.21. He gave him a ten. Pretty Barista dropped the change in his hand and Alex could have sworn he felt their fingers touch- just barely- but it still sent shivers down his spine.

Alex grinned stupidly and left the change in the tips jar. God, was he smitten. He walked over to Eliza, who was lounging in one of the low chairs near the fireplace, and fell down into the chair next to her. Exhaling deeply, he closed his eyes and smiled.

“Christ, you’re lovestruck,” Eliza commented, half reading the audition flier and half eyeing her sappy friend. “What happened to the loudmouthed punk who argued over scarf fabric that I talked to last week?”

“He went on vacation,” Alex mindlessly replied, still reliving the disastrous encounter with Pretty Barista that left him both jittery and serene at the same time. “Besides, I will be admitted to heaven, free of charge, before I let Hercules say that polyester is a suitable fabric for scarves. It’s just not okay!”

“There he is!” Eliza smiled, leaning over her chair and tugging at Alex’s cheeks as if he was a small child. When he heard a small ‘ahem’ behind him and noticed Pretty Barista was standing there, holding two cups of coffee, with a grin on his face as if watching Alex get coddled by Eliza was  _ entertaining, _ somehow, Alex almost fell backwards in embarrassment. He felt a blush rise and settle on his face.  _ Merde,  _ he cursed silently to himself.  _ Shit, shit, shit. _

He looked up and saw Pretty Barista wink at him before setting the coffees down on the table near them and striking up a conversation with Eliza.

“Hey, Eliza!” he greeted, rubbing her shoulder lovingly, “Fancy seeing you here. What’s up?”

“Hey, John!” Eliza smiled warmly, looking up at him with a glint in her eye. So Pretty Barista was John from Eliza’s softball team. Just his luck.

“We-” she gestured to Alex and suddenly he found his coffee a lot more interesting than it probably was- “were going around posting fliers for an audition coming up at the Federalist Theater, you know the one, a few blocks down?” John quickly nodded. “-when I decided Alexander here owed me a coffee for all my kind service.”

Her faint smile was a vain attempt to conceal that she was smugly trying her best to make Alex make a fool of himself; he was sure of it. But Pretty Barista- no,  _ John _ \- only grinned cheekily and offered him a firm handshake, which probably shouldn’t have left Alexander as breathless as it did.

“An audition, eh? Mind if I grab one of those fliers?” he continued, taking one before either of them had a chance to deny him, and tucked it into his back pocket. Eliza only smiled and Alexander was beginning to feel sick from all the smiling that was happening.

“Right, well, I’ve got to head back to work. Martha can only be so lenient before she docks my pay,” John continued, his hazel eyes crinkling with joy. God, was he ethereal. “I’ll see you two around,” he smirked before returning to the register.

“Shit,” Alex breathed, realizing he was completely head over heals with the barista who seemed to be Eliza’s best friend. He could understand why they were friends, too. They were both gorgeous, light-hearted, and exuberant. Remembering the wink John had sent him at the register, Alex took a big swig of his coffee and blinked, trying desperately to clear his mind.

“Are you okay?” Eliza asked, glancing at him, her eyes softer. She took a small sip of her latte.

Instead of answering, Alex fidgeted with the sleeve on the cup until it ripped off, revealing a phone number scribbled hastily in sharpie. A small heart and a winky face accompanied the number and Alex just knew he was doomed. “Shit,” he repeated, closing his eyes.

Eliza only squeezed his hand and reminded him they had fliers to post, so he reluctantly stood up and followed Eliza out of the coffeehouse. If he took a quick picture of the number scribbled on his empty coffee cup before throwing it out, well, he was sure Eliza wouldn’t mention it.

Walking down the street, arm in arm, Eliza allowed Alex the companionable silence he needed. They got to work, hanging fliers in storefront windows, on street lamps, on notice boards. When they returned to the theater at dusk, not a flier left in hand, Angelica only smiled in appreciation and offered him and her sister rides home. He spent the whole car ride trying to remember the way John’s eyes shined under the café’s bright lights.

\---  

Alex walked into their apartment and tossed his coat onto a chair. Hercules was lounging on their couch, playing some video game where a knight appeared to be fighting a yeti. Alex decided not to ask. Noticing a plate of ravioli sitting on the kitchen counter- Herc had probably made it for him- Alex smiled contently and grabbed a fork.

“What’s up?” he asked, settling down in the chair next to Hercules and beginning to chew on his dinner.

His friend shrugged his shoulders, obviously not in the best mood. Alex noticed a half-finished scarf, its  needles still attached, on the floor. Hercules almost never got so moody that not even knitting- or was it crocheting? He’d have to ask when Herc was less somber- could soothe him. Leaning back, he quickly finished his ravioli and let Hercules pout in peace.

Once he finished his last bite, he cleared his throat and set his plate down on the coffee table. He made himself comfortable, dangling his legs over the arm of his chair.

“Where’s Laf?” Alex asked, watching Hercules stare at the screen intensely.

His friend grunted, smashing the controller with frustrated fingers. “Probably picking someone up at the bar,” he answered shortly.

Alex smirked and raised an eyebrow knowingly, not even caring if he was exhibiting the same obnoxious behavior Eliza had used to rile him up earlier. “And you’re mad that Laf’s getting it on without you, huh, Herc?”

Hercules paused the game and gave him a side-eye worth shutting him up, but Alex just grinned wider. “Right,” he continued, taking the paralyzing look Hercules sent him as all the affirmation he needed, “Well, I’m off to bed. Have fun releasing your anger out on Bowser, or whatever.”

“This isn’t even a Mario game!” Hercules yelled as Alexander closed the door to his bedroom.

Alex rolled his eyes at his friend’s gloomy mood. Herc was so predictable. Yawning, Alex quickly undressed and climbed into bed. He opened his phone and skimmed through twitter, giving himself mental notes on which posts to completely dismantle tomorrow, before remembering the picture he had taken of John’s number earlier. With a faint smile, he sent the number a quick text.

to 212-555-9342, 10:47 pm.

   so is this pretty barista from earlier or was the number on my coffee cup an elaborate set-up i should be regretting?

 

from 212-555-9342, 10:51 pm.

   well i don’t know about the pretty part, but besides that, yes, i’m john from earlier. i’m assuming this is alexander?

 

to 212-555-9342, 10:53 pm.

   the one and only. today was nice, maybe we should hang out sometime?

 

from 212-555-9342, 10:55 pm.

   that actually sounds lovely. i’d ask us to plan it now but i really need to sleep. goodnight alexander :)

 

to 212-555-9342, 10:56 pm.

   of course. goodnight john :)

 

Alex sighed in relief. He was glad he had at least  _ one _ successful conversation with John. With a smile tugging at his lips, Alex pulled the blankets up to his chin and nodded off.

\---   
The rest of his week was no less chaotic than usual. Alex spent his few days of solitude leading up to the auditions writing. He finished a play he had been working on- a critique on American consumerism through the eyes of a bastard orphan (who he had transcribed as himself, really). He knew it would never get published. Most of his plays didn’t; they were called “overtly radical” or “unnerving” or “too many damn pages for any man to understand.” But Alex was as unrelenting as always and had sent it off to Peggy, knowing they’d love to proofread the piece.

He also spent a bit too much time on twitter, glaring menacingly at the awful opinions people poured into the hellhole. His twitter was a hurricane of dismantling conservatives, although he mainly just focused on the opinions of Thomas Jefferson. The anger that had swelled inside his fast-paced mind upon reading that Thomas thought Andrew Jackson- really? _ Andrew Jackson? _ \- was the best American president may or may not have led him into writing a 51-part twitter rant regarding the insolence and ignorance behind Thomas’ tweets. So all in all, his week was going great.

That is, until the night before the auditions. Alex was lounging on a chair, reading a book on unemployment, as Hercules pranced around their kitchen. He was in charge of dinner for the night and had dressed the part, too. Clad in his homemade “Kiss the Chef” apron and a peaceful smile, he announced, “Laf won’t be back for a few hours. Said he was meeting up with an old friend.”

Alexander nodded and continued to skim the pages of his book. He had just gotten to the good part- when the author debunked the nativist myth claiming immigrants were the sole cause of unemployment- when Lafayette stormed into the apartment. His roommate seemed near fainting, his eyes dazzled and foggy, and stumbled forward.

Throwing his book on the table, Alex rushed to catch his friend, barely grabbing a hold of his shoulders before Lafayette hit the floor. Hercules fled from his perch at the stovetop and carried the distressed frenchman over to the couch, where Lafayette dramatically draped himself in a blanket, his knuckles grazing his forehead. Alex sighed. Lafayette’s dramatic entrances were common enough, but Lafayette usually immediately started lamenting over his disgust towards polo shirts, or his anguish towards American fast food, or whatever it was that had upset him. His silence was off-putting.

Alex sat down next to Lafayette. Unsure of how to handle a silent Lafayette, he anxiously patted his friend’s feet. It wasn’t until Hercules offered the boisterous man a cup of tea that Lafayette sat up and began his expected tyrant.

“Oh, Hercules, Alex. You will never believe the horror I witnessed today. It was so grave, so  _ tragique.” _

“What happened?” Hercules asked, his voice masking his concern with a soothing baritone. He knelt in front of the couch and held Lafayette’s hand.

Lafayette took a deep breath, almost as if he was about to explode, and unleashed his fury. “I saw Thomas Jefferson, you know, the want-to-be frenchman from the Grand Old Theatre- eurgh, what a dump.”

Hercules let go of his friend’s hand and stared at Alex, his face deadpanned. He was obviously upset he believed Lafayette had a serious problem, but Alex only shrugged and urged Lafayette to continue.

“And?” Alex always welcomed extra dirt to pull on that elitist piece of trash.

“Well,” Lafayette continued, dramatically waving his arms about, ‘He was with his crony- what is his name? Oh yes, James Madison. They were walking down the street, and I was walking towards them- on my way to the, uhh, how you say? Ah, yes! The library- when Thomas pulled me aside and asked me what I thought of his jacket!” Lafayette raised his voice, obviously outraged by the seemingly innocent question.

Alex and Hercules only stared at their friend with slight frowns of confusion. Lafayette huffed.

‘Of course you would not understand,” Lafayette blurted out. “It is an insult to me, as _u_ _ n Français, _ to be asked whether or not his Chanel coat was satisfactory, as if I am the embodiment of all french fashion designers!”

“To be frank,” Hercules interrupted solemnly, “You do have an opinion on almost every outfit you see.”

“ _ Ce n’est pas l’objet,  _ Hercules!” the frenchman retorted, before hiccuping, and Alex began to think their Lafayette-sized problem was at least a little tipsy. At least.

He was about to order Lafayette to go to bed early, knowing he had a big audition the next day and shouldn’t have gone out drinking the night before, but Lafayette started talking again before he had a chance.

“Perhaps you are right,  _ mes amis. _ I did have an opinion on his coat. It was hideous!” Lafayette exclaimed, pounding vehemently on the couch cushion. Leave it to Lafayette to contradict his problems entirely.

“I’m sure it was,” Alexander yawned, “but you’ve got an audition tomorrow and should probably go to bed.” He nodded to Hercules, who had gotten up to check on his food about halfway through Lafayette’s outburst.

“Very well,” Lafayette agreed before pulling a flask out of his coat (seriously, how many flasks did he keep in there?) and downing the whole of its contents.

Alexander groaned. “That’s it,” he declared, dragging Lafayette by the ear into his bedroom. He tucked the protesting actor into bed, albeit with difficulty _ (Non! Alexandre, mon petit lion, don’t leave me. Alexandre! Alex!), _ and stalked back into their living room. He ruffled a hand through his hair, sighing loudly. Alex usually didn’t mind Lafayette’s impulsive drinking habits, but he wasn’t going to let him screw up his audition. There was no way he was surviving a season at that madhouse without Laf. No way.

“Is France asleep yet?” he heard Hercules ask, his mellow voice puncturing the silent bubble in their living room. Alex only shrugged. He knew Lafayette had probably just started drinking again. The image of his roommate solemnly staring at his dark bedroom ceiling, kissing another flask, was one he knew only too well. A giggle from behind the wall confirmed Alex’s suspicions. That french bastard.   

Alex walked over to their breakfast bar and jumped onto one of its stools. Hercules was still in the kitchen, a pan sizzling with some sort of vegetable fry, so Alex pulled his laptop out of his bag and got to work on his dissertation.

Twenty minutes later, Alex was typing rapidly, filling up his document with blocks of text. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he effortlessly discussed America’s faulty portrayal of immigrants in theater, content that would no doubt earn him his degree. Unfortunately, Hercules snuck up behind him and quickly replaced his laptop with a plate of stir-fry, leaving Alex’s fingers typing in thin air.

“Hey, c’mon Herc,” Alex pleaded, trying to grab the laptop Hercules held just of his reach, “Just let me finish the sentence, at least!”

“No, Alex. You need to eat,” Hercules deadpanned.

Alex groaned. He didn’t need to be coddled by Hercules into eating; he had work to do. But before he could argue, a low grumble emerged from his stomach.  _ Shit.  _ Hercules gave him a pointed look, so with a dramatic sigh, Alex dug into his meal.

After he finished his forced dinner, which was admittedly delicious, Alex joined his friend on the couch. Hercules was calmly knitting (or was in crocheting? Alex really needed to stop procrastinating asking) a pale blue scarf, his lips tugged upward in a small smile. The scene was quite endearing, watching his bulky friend at complete ease, and Alex sensed his evening would be a quiet one.

Alex grabbed his laptop from where Hercules had placed it on the coffee table and got back to work. His dissertation wasn’t going to write itself and he had a lot of ground to cover. They stayed there, working in simple silence. Eventually, Hercules announced he was tired and left for his bedroom, but not before giving Alex’s hair a small ruffle and telling him to go to sleep soon.

Alex took that as his cue to stop writing, so he closed his laptop with a flourish and headed off to bed. Hercules was right. He was going to need all the rest he could get for the next day’s chaotic auditions.

\---

The next morning greeted Lafayette with a sizable hangover and grumpy attitude. “I just wish you could have the warmful glow of alcohol without the hangover.  _ Je le deteste,” _ Laf moaned over breakfast.

Alexander sighed, a told-you-so on the tip of his tongue, but Hercules’ protective glare prevented Alex from expressing his passive aggression out loud. “It’s alright, Laf. Just take it easy,” Hercules comforted, handing the gloomy man a glass of water and two advils.

Alex raised an eyebrow Herc’s way as he took a sip of his coffee, a blank stare directed at his grossly coddling friend. But Hercules only ignored him and went back to making sure Lafayette actually ate something.

By the time the trio was ready to leave their tiny apartment, Alexander’s coffee had kicked in and given him the boost he needed for the day. Lafayette wasn’t fairing as well, however; his hair was as droopy as his eyelids. “Can I just stay here?” Lafayette asked, leaning on the wall with a grimace.

“Nope,” Hercules responded curtly.

“Yeah, there’s no way I’m surviving this season without you,” Alex added, slipping his coat on and grabbing his backpack. “Now let’s go.”

“Make sure Laf doesn’t vomit on stage,” Hercules pleaded. He was staying home, working on a dress he had been commissioned. Alex gave him a small nod before shutting the door behind him and Lafayette and leading them out of their apartment building.

Lafayette grimaced at the loud sounds on the street and Alex took his hand, comfortingly squeezing his taller friend’s palm as they made their way to the theater.

When they arrived, Angelica ran out the main entrance and all but dragged the two men inside, exhaling a dramatic “Finally!” before giving Alex a stressed look and a list of all the auditioners rehearsing backstage. “Don’t let anyone start auditioning for another twenty minutes. They’re rehearsing in pairs, so just let them in two at a time. And  _ please, _ Alex, don’t start any arguments,” she ordered before turning back and entering the empty auditorium.

Alex turned to Lafayette, who seemed just as worn out as earlier, and led them both to the backstage area. People were scattered around the space, stressful looks adorning all their faces. A few paced in circles with their scripts held up to their noses, eyes twitching. Others sat calmly, reviewing the dialogue with less fuss. A few scene partners had already started working out blocking, and one pair was rambunctiously pacing down their makeshift stage. Alex groaned. This year’s batch of auditioners didn’t look very promising.

He handed Lafayette a script and his friend muttered a quiet  _ “Merci” _ before escaping to the corner of the room, probably trying to escape the noise. Alex pitied him. To be hungover and surrounded by loud, obnoxious actors right before an audition? If the casting director wasn’t Washington, Lafayette would have probably been screwed.

A small tap on his shoulder broke Alex out of his thoughts. He turned around to see a mop of dark curls draped over a freckled face, complete with a pleasant smile and familiar eyes. Alex’s heart almost flopped right out of his chest, overwhelmed by the sheer beauty in front of him.  _ John is here, John is here, John is here. _

“Hey,” John said, his dimples elegantly framing his perfect smile. His hands were resting in his hoodie’s pockets, his shoulders held upward a little awkwardly, but God, did he looked stunning.

“Hey,” Alex responded, a little breathy. He probably looked very stupid with his dopey grin, but he couldn’t care less. John was there, and he couldn’t get over how amazing he looked.

“I thought I’d come audition, just to see what it’s all like, y’know?” John explained, shrugging his shoulders.

Alex chuckled, a hoarse one that made him inwardly gag, and handed him a script. “You’ll need a scene partner,” Alex told him before pointing at Lafayette, who was still sitting alone in the corner. “Laf doesn’t have one, so why don’t you join him? He’s a bit hungover, though, so go easy on him.”

John grinned, his eyes crinkling heartedly. Alex’s chest constricted just a bit, so overwhelmed by the simple happiness John exhibited. “Of course, Alexander,” the barista replied before leaving to rehearse with his friend.

Alex stood there, mouth slightly agape, and blinked slowly. His mind was stuck, replaying the way John had said his name over and over. John’s voice was just so ethereal, he thought, as he watched him and his roommate begin rehearsing dialogue. He noticed John smile again, an effortlessly captivating smile, no doubt, and a small breath escaped Alex’s chest. “Merde,” Alex muttered, biting his lip, as he realized that he was a complete goner. “Shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> translations:  
> Des crêpes! Juste pour toi, mon petit lion!: Some crepes! Just for you, my little lion!  
> Il est amusant!: It's funny!  
> exactement: exactly  
> merde: shit  
> tragique: tragic  
> un Francais: a frenchman  
> Ce n'est pas l'objet!: That's not the point!  
> mes amis: my friends  
> Je le deteste: I hate it  
> merci: thanks
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. :)


End file.
